Unsatisfied
by DasMervin
Summary: Her mind was struggling to cope, to understand, to process all of this--this was what she wanted, had been imagining, yes--just not so much in a barber's chair.


**Rating: R for sexual content and some violence**

**Author's Notes: After much prodding and encouragement, I'm posting this. I was hesitant to do it, but here it is. While "Pretty Women" has Mrs. Lovett and Sweeney going further, this is what I believe to be the truest extent of anything they ever did together. Disagree all you like, but I am honestly not a Sweeney/Lovett shipper, unless it's completely unrequited.**

**And yes—I do believe that's all Sweeney can manage. Fifteen years of prison, and all.**

* * *

Sweeney Todd was very drunk. But that was perfectly fine, because Mrs. Lovett knew he was drunk, and she wasn't exactly sober herself, mind. The bottles of gin lay empty on the dusty floorboards of the tonsorial parlor, long forgotten, because she was much too busy with something else at the moment—rather, someone else, the someone else being Mr. Todd. Mister T in his mechanical monster of a barber's chair, one arm dangling loosely over the side, blood still all over him from the last customer of the day, razor in hand. 

Mister T beneath her as she had him pinned in his chair, kissing him. And him kissing back. Him _responding_.

He'd been maudlin all day rather than the impatient, pacing furious that he usual was, fuming that people weren't coming up fast enough to suit him, which was probably for the best, because while her business had boomed as usual, his had been very slow. So slow, in fact, he'd closed early, something he never did, but Mrs. Lovett had covered for him, telling the few that had wanted to go upstairs that Mr. Todd was under the weather and curtseying sweetly when they wished him well after complimenting her on her meat pies.

She'd gone upstairs after they'd yet again sold out just to check on him, leaving Toby to cover things for a few minutes. Mr. Todd had not answered the door, and she'd been irritated to discover the curtains drawn and the door locked. Fishing about in her purse for the key, she'd unlocked it and swung open the door, squinting in the darkness. There he'd had been, sitting in that chair, blood still on him and looking utterly miserable. His only words to her had been a grunting demand for a bottle of something strong. Pleased that he'd asked her for something (he never asked her for anything, not even food or drink or even a book), she'd obliged with her usual staple of gin, taking up the already opened half-full bottle and an unopened one along with a glass.

She'd rushed through clean-up that night before going upstairs, being sure to tell Toby to stay away from the tonsorial parlor because Mr. Todd was in a temper and it wouldn't be wise to disturb him. Toby, bless him, had understood completely and had turned in early as a result. As such, when she'd finally made her way upstairs, unlocking the door to the parlor and stepping inside, she'd not been surprised to find that Mr. Todd was still sitting in his chair, fumbling with the cork of the second bottle, the first empty and on its side beside him on the floor. She'd noticed the empty and dry tumbler perched right where she'd set it down beside him. Drinking straight from the bottle—how very uncouth.

"_Really_, Mister T," she'd huffed, closing the door and locking it behind her again. Hands on her hips, she turned and faced him, pursing her lips at the way he was ignoring her—she really wasn't in any mood to deal with his ignoring her tonight. "How on earth do you hold that stuff like you do?"

He'd not answered, as usual, still fruitlessly trying to open the second bottle. She'd rolled her eyes and moved across the room, taking the container from him and uncorking it easily. She'd picked up the neglected tumbler and poured herself a shot before handing him the bottle again. "You would've 'ad a better time if you'd've put that razor down. And maybe cleaned yourself off," she'd remarked before throwing back her own shot.

"Lucy'n Johanna came in today," he'd slurred. "I gave her husband a shave." He'd taken another drink, spilling some of it when he did. She'd pursed her lips, irritated that he was wasting good gin like that.

"You mean that little family that came up? Don' be silly, Mister T. That wasn't them," she'd said as gently as she could, taking the bottle and pouring herself some more; it wasn't that she'd wanted to drink the stuff, it was just that she knew it would make it easier to deal with him moaning and groaning about Lucy as well as make sure he didn't drink the whole damn thing by himself. He'd certainly had enough already. "I know that family. 'Sides—Mrs. Cummings's hair is brown, not yellow."

He'd not replied, and that miserable and hurt look had pulled at her very heartstrings and she'd regretted her words immediately. She'd sat up there with him, deluding herself nicely into thinking that her presence was a comfort to him. She'd kept up with the drinking, splitting the entire full bottle with an already drunken Mr. Todd, so by the end of it, she was wobbly and getting a little maudlin herself, though more giggly than anything. He, on the other hand, had been getting more and more upset, continuing to insist that Lucy and Johanna had been there that day. She'd stood up, not so drunk to know that she'd probably be better off leaving him alone for the night so he could sleep off the gin, but the alcohol had turned on her, and she'd stumbled forward and next thing she knew she'd partially knocked the wind out of Mr. Todd, falling right on him in that chair.

She'd laughed—gin always made her laugh at things, and she'd found this situation funny, her all disheveled and tipsy and on Mister T. It was funny—all of it was just so funny. He, however, hadn't laughed, and when she'd looked up, a gin-addled grin on her face, she'd seen how he was looking at her; her grin had slowly slid away, and she'd finally noticed that his arm was around her. The next thing she'd known, he'd pulled her closer to him, his hot breath against her flushed cheek. Then she'd kissed him, and he hadn't pulled away, no, he'd kissed her back, that arm tightening, and she still wasn't sure when she'd pulled herself up on top of him, awkwardly managing to straddle him in the chair, pushing her skirts out of the way as she had.

Her mind was struggling to cope, to understand, to process all of this—this was what she'd wanted, had been imagining, yes—just not so much in a barber's chair. Mr. Todd—_Sweeney_ had never kissed her before, and now here he was, not just kissing her on the cheek like she'd dared with him, no, he was giving her filthy and wet kisses, kissing her in ways she'd never dreamed he would. Already she was panting, and he was too, his fingers clutching desperately at her corset. She moaned when he clumsily kissed, sucked, and licked down her chin and neck, and a thrill went through her when he finally brought his other hand up, that razor open and still in it. He didn't close it or put it away even as he groped her through her dress and corset, the dried and crusted blood scratching her flesh, the razor smooth and cold against her collarbone, and then he wrapped both arms around her and clung to her, kissing her again so hard and desperately she knew her lip was bleeding now—or maybe it was his. She was tempted to ask him to put the razor down, or maybe suggest that they move to the relative comfort of his dilapidated bed, but talking would make him hesitate or slow them down, so she said nothing and redoubled her efforts.

She was dizzy with the intensity of the lust (and gin) in her, pressing herself harder against him, letting one of her hands grab at his shirt, wishing she could get it open, and giving a startled gasp when he grabbed her arse. She settled for struggling to grind her hips against his, and finally he groaned, his head tilting back and his eyes closing, and his other hand moved across her breasts again, and she hissed slightly when the very tip of that damned razor nicked her chest. But it didn't matter—what mattered was this and hurrying to its completion, however improper it was be damned. She wanted him, wanted him _badly_, and for once he wanted her back.

He was pushing back now, and she could hear his boots scuffing on the floor. She was desperate to get his trousers open, to take advantage of the situation, but he was holding her too tightly for her to get to him, pressing her against him every time he pushed hard against her, and she tasted blood as she kissed him, not knowing whose it was. He was making noise, moaning and grunting against her mouth, and he was shaking. Her skirts had hitched up—or maybe they'd been pulled up, she couldn't tell—and she shivered as he'd gotten the hand holding her up under them, grasping her arse again tightly and making her garters dig into the flesh of her thighs. She leaned into his groping, groaning with him this time as she kissed him again.

Suddenly he drew in a great shuddering gasp and tore his mouth from hers, throwing his head back. His fingers clutched her shoulder tight, so tight it hurt, and he let out a low, almost pathetic moan. She recognized the way he thrust jerkily up against her, and knew what had happened. Tamping down on the disappointment that flooded her, she carefully leaned forward, gently caressing his face, trying to eke out what romance she could from this—she'd imagined things would be much more romantic with him, and this was…well, this was almost comic, not romantic. His eyes were still tightly closed as he gasped for air, his entire body trembling, fingers slowly relaxing. She closed her own eyes when she felt the hand on her shoulder limply try to stroke her cheek.

"Lucy…" he whispered.

Her eyes snapped open. For a moment, her eyes narrowed, and her mind exploded with all manner of filthy thoughts she wanted to do to him to show that no, she was not Lucy, would Lucy have dared to do _this_, or _that_—but he was already gone, head lolling to the side, everything about him going limp, and within seconds he'd passed out, the entire situation obviously becoming too much for him. She heard the razor clatter to the floor, his hand finally relinquishing the silver.

She was not sure what to do now—or even what to feel. She was hot, bothered, and unsatisfied. She was filled with a dull fury by his final word to her. And then there was the part of her excited, pleased, and oh-so happy that here she was, astride her beloved, even though he'd made a mess of himself and was passed out drunk. The gin still flowing through her veins helped her to calm down, and she leaned forward, nuzzling his exposed throat and kissing there. He didn't wake up, and that pleased her. While he was asleep, he couldn't stop her from doing things she wanted.

Maybe it was just the gin, but she felt this was _somewhat_ romantic, laying against him this way. At least from the waist up it was, despite the fact that he wasn't holding her in any fashion. She pressed a hand against his thin, skeletal chest and wished prison hadn't starved him so, because she'd always dreamed of him as muscular. Oh well—she would take what she'd gotten, as always. She closed her eyes, face against his neck, and breathed in his scent—gin, filth, blood. She didn't mind. She stroked his cheek, her fingers gliding across his skin. It wasn't soft anymore, no; prison had seen to that. But did it matter? It was his, and she'd wanted to touch his face and kiss his mouth for years now. It was just slightly altered from her original fantasy, was all. Of course, her original fantasy had also involved him sweeping her off her feet, declaring her beautiful and gorgeous, and then throwing her down (gently) on a sumptuous bed and ravishing her all night before declaring how much he loved her and would she, oh would she marry him, rather than him doing…well, that.

"Almost like a virgin," she murmured, and then let out a muffled giggle at the thought, the idea of her as the wise mentor, teaching and turning him into the passionate lover she'd always wanted to be quite amusing. Sweeney jerked a bit in his sleep, and she fell silent, not wanting him to wake back up and ruin the mood, the great lout—he was good at doing that, she'd noticed, but this was one moment she wasn't about to let him spoil. At least, no more than he already had, not staying up and awake long enough for her to enjoy herself.

He wouldn't remember this in the morning, which was probably for the best. She didn't want him feeling badly about not lasting long enough to do anything. She knew prison had done it to him—fifteen years without a woman's care, a woman's touch…it showed. His groping had been desperate and almost inexperienced. He'd long forgotten that sort of thing. His kisses had been biting and sloppy (and drunk), and he'd hurt her sometimes, though not much. A thin trickle of blood had oozed down between her breasts from where his razor had pierced her, but she didn't mind—it was almost like a love bite, coming from him, even though it had only been an accident. As much as she would've gladly wandered around with that showing, it wouldn't do and wasn't proper for public, so she reached down and carefully used the rag dangling from his belt to wipe the blood off of her skin.

Her knees were starting to protest the way she was sitting now, so, reluctantly, she delicately eased herself off of him, careful to avoid that foot pedal and send them both headfirst down to her bakehouse, because that would _really_ be awkward. The boards creaked beneath her feet, and she wondered briefly if Toby had heard anything—surely they'd made some kind of racket. But the alcohol still in her couldn't be arsed to care, so the thought quickly left her mind. She stepped back, smoothing her skirts down, and stared at him.

She'd never seen him look so peaceful. He wasn't completely relaxed—he never was—but at least he wasn't having nightmares or thrashing about. She found it odd that he was sleeping more soundly in his chair than in his bed. Well, if he wanted to sleep there, he could (and, knowing where he'd been sent, he'd probably slept in much worse). He'd have a crick in his neck and sore back afterwards, but she knew he rarely felt pain anymore; she'd seen him grab a knife wrong and not flinch. She let her eyes wander across his entire form—the blood crusting his fingers, the undignified way he was sprawled out, the way that, in this light, when he closed his eyes it almost looked like there were nothing but two hollow sockets there. But it didn't matter—he may not have been as beautiful as he'd been so many years ago, but he was still beautiful to her. Just…a different kind. A kind that was hers, and hers alone.

The thought made her sentimental, and she carefully moved over to him and leaned down and kissed him as sweetly as she could manage, seeing as she was still half-drunk and he was passed out. He still didn't wake up, and she knew that, in the very least, the tonsorial parlor would open late tomorrow. With him sleeping more solidly than he'd done in a very long time, she wasn't about to disturb him with work. That, and he'd probably have a splitting headache when he finally woke up which would make his demeanor more atrocious than usual, as well as the confusion as to why he was such a disaster. If he was feeling conversational, he might ask her just what on earth he'd been doing last night. But she wasn't going to enlighten him.

She wasn't one to kiss and tell.


End file.
